The Intruder
by Rhoda Nightingale
Summary: Becca is in the psyche ward at the Kingdom, and something evil follows her. Paul's interest is piqued when he learns about Becca's troubled history. Adding category on account of the new "crossover" option.
1. Day Zero

The Intruder

Summary: Crossover with _The_ _Ring_. Becca gets transferred to the psyche ward in Kingdom Hospital to continue her treatment for severe trauma and delirium. But somehow, the haunted videotape that killed her friend, Katie, has found its way into the hospital closed circuit TV, putting everyone on the ninth floor in danger. However, when Paul and Dr. Gottreich realize that it's a ghost that's causing all the damage – a ghost that wasn't part of the Old Kingdom – they see her as competition and set out to destroy her before she can hurt anyone else.

Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to Stephen King or Lars von Trier; and to Koji Suzuki or Ehren Kruger, depending on whose side you're on. (So nobody sue me!)

Author's Note: I've taken a few liberties with the details of both stories, partly to keep things tidy, partly because I don't want to deal with the prospect of Samara's not being bound to the tape, or with her mother. Also, I've taken it upon myself to answer some of the questions I still had after watching the entire _Kingdom_ _Hospital_ mini-series and reading the accompanying book, _The Journals of Eleanor Druse_. I might be wrong, but I'm willing to take the risk in exchange for a good story. I'm writing this because I always felt that Becca needed her own story. She has so little screen time, but she makes a terrific impact, and she's the only one in the _Ring _saga who was profoundly affected by Samara without ever actually watching the tape. Oh, and we authors live for feedback, so please don't be shy with that 'review' button!

Preface

It had been a bad idea to move her. Becca Jordan was mentally unstable enough without being suddenly relocated from Seattle, Washington to Lewiston, Maine. But the family had no choice. Money was tight, and most of it went to keeping Becca in the psychiatric facility. So when a business opportunity arose for Becca's father, even though it was on the other side of the country, they took it.

They didn't think it would make much difference. Becca's mind was nearly gone as it was, so the move couldn't harm her but so much more. And even if it did, they would just deal with any problems the best they could.

They told themselves that the change of scenery was good for her. It was good for her to get away from the trauma and the memories that haunted her day and night in the city. They told themselves that, given a little more time, and a little better treatment, and a little more money, she might even get better.

They didn't know they'd been followed.

Day Zero: The New Arrival

Paul sat on an unoccupied hospital bed, hands folded in front of him, watching the new girl sleep. Her face was lined prematurely, her full lips were dry and cracked, and her thick brown hair was monstrously tangled. She was only seventeen, but she looked like she'd weathered the years of someone many decades older.

She wasn't really asleep. Her eyes were closed, but the lids flickered restlessly, and her breathing was ragged and shallow. The nurses thought she was just a fitful sleeper. Paul knew better. This one hadn't slept in almost a year.

He had looked at her file already. It said she'd been mentally traumatized after her best friend had died under mysterious circumstances. Becca had found the body. And allegedly, it had been so grotesque that the sight of it had instantly sent her into shock. She hadn't been right since. What did it say exactly? "Prone to incoherent ramblings, sometimes with morbid undertones . . . Prone to fits of violent hysteria . . . Probable danger to herself and to others, must not be left alone," etc., etc.

So much for not leaving her alone.

Paul was debating whether or not to bother toying with her. If she scared that easily, she might not be worth the effort. Still, there was no telling if he didn't try. . .

Paul stood up and moved to the bedside. Quickly, he scanned her memories, looking for something that might confuse or frighten her. At the top of the pile was other girl's body – horrible, flesh red and blistered, jaw hanging open half-off its hinges, eyes popped and rolling – but that was too easy. He kept looking.

Further back was her old self, buried deep under layers of delirium. She'd been a bright girl, brimming with potential but lacking in motivation. Schoolwork and creativity took a backseat to fashion and T.V. She'd been a follower, modest and unremarkable. Her only vice was gossip. She was a junkie for a good story.

How sad. It was so much more poetic when the crazies had something worth losing when they lost their minds. No stories would be written about this one. She'd be a footnote in the story about the death of her poor friend; nothing more.

Paul kept looking. He went back to the images of that last night – it was a cop-out, but it was the best he could do. Most of it was a flashbulb memory, pristine and unchanged, but there were pieces that didn't seem to fit. There were things that didn't match the setting of the dead girl's bedroom, where Becca had found her. A long wooden ladder, a stone well in the middle of a field, a lone tree standing at the top of an otherwise barren hill. And a figure, something or someone, dressed in a long white hospital gown, with long black hair. None of it made sense. Why were these mismatched images thrown in with Becca's memory of the girl's death?

Suddenly Becca's eyes snapped open and she bolted upright in the bed. Paul took a step back, startled. Becca's hands went over her ears and she started rocking back and forth. Her lips were moving, but no sound came out. Her face was gaunt with terror. Paul looked down at himself to see if he'd transformed somehow without meaning to – he'd been thinking about taking on the shape of either the dead girl or the black-haired wraith, but he hadn't done anything yet. And then he heard it: ringing phones going off in the corridor outside. He turned away from Becca and slipped out into the hallway. The harsh, electric sound was even louder out there. It seemed as though almost every phone on this floor had gone off at once. The linoleum floor was wet.


	2. Day One

Author's Note: Firstly, a HUGE collective thank-you to all the folks who read and reviewed! I felt pretty confident about this story when I posted it, but I didn't expect so much response so quickly. So you guys rule! Secondly, this chapter is much longer, and more the length I'm expecting to get out of the rest of the chapters in this story. The first was meant to be an introductory sort of thing, and introductions by their very nature wind up shorter than proper chapters. Just fyi. Thirdly, in case anyone's wondering why I'm not describing Katie in more detail – I kept my eyes shut during that part. I have no idea what that face looks like, I've never seen it, and I don't care to – I scare too easy, heh. SO that part of it will just continue to be vague, and we'll all just have to live it. Kay? No hard feelin's.

Day One: Dr. Massingale

Becca wasn't supposed to be in the Sunshine Ward. The nurses thought the terminal patients would be depressed by the sight of a young girl alongside them, and the patients in the psyche ward weren't supposed to go up there anyway. But Becca had slipped out of her room and taken the elevator to the rooftop while her nurse's back was turned.

When the nurse assigned to watch over Becca finally found her, she was sitting on a lonely metal folding chair in the solarium, bundled up in a brown and beige terry cloth robe, facing the window. All the other patients were watching the T.V. anchored to the ceiling, but Becca had turned her chair so she couldn't see it. If anyone had looked at her face, they would have seen that she wasn't really looking _through_ the window. Just staring blankly at the glass.

The nurse walked over to her and gingerly touched her shoulder. Becca didn't respond.

"Becca?" said the nurse.

Still nothing.

"Sweetheart, your parents are here to see you," the nurse continued. "Let's go back to your room and say hello, hm?"

Slowly, Becca stood and let the nurse take her by the arm.

"That's it, dear," said the nurse. "Right this way."

Mr. and Mrs. Jordan were waiting in Becca's room. They'd been told that the nurse had taken Becca up to the Sunshine Ward to get some "fresh morning air" and a change of scenery. No one wanted to admit that they'd lost track of her, and since no mishaps had taken place, they figured one little white lie wouldn't hurt anyone. So when Becca and her nurse returned to her room on the psyche ward on the ninth floor, her parents smiled up at her as if nothing in the world was wrong.

"Hi, honey," said Mrs. Jordan, coming up to the girl and hugging her tightly. "How are you feeling?"

Becca hugged her back woodenly, repeating the gesture out of habit rather than affection. "I want to go home," she whispered.

"I know, Becca, I know," said Mrs. Jordan, rubbing Becca's back. "Not today. Sometime soon, though, okay?"

Mrs. Jordan let go of her daughter and put an arm around her shoulders to guide her into the room. There was a doctor standing near Becca's bed, not far from where her father was sitting. It was a lady doctor, with dark blond hair and the first etchings of age beginning to show on her once lovely face – high cheekbones, warm complexion, deep blue eyes, all boldly highlighted with make-up that didn't quite hide the worry-lines on her forehead or the wrinkles behind her eyes.

Mr. Jordan stood. "Becks, this is Dr. Massingale," he told Becca. "She's going to give you something to help you sleep."

Becca looked up at Dr. Massingale, who was smiling kindly, and frowned.

"Hello Becca," said Dr. Massingale, reaching out to take Becca's hand. "You can call me Lona, if you like. I heard you've been having some bad dreams."

Becca pulled her hand away and moved past Dr. Massingale, to her bed. She sat up on the bed and faced the window, pulling her knees up to her chest. "She never sleeps," she said quietly.

Mr. Jordan sighed. "Sometimes she refers to herself in the third person," he told Dr. Massingale apologetically. "We don't know why, but it started after . . . the accident."

"Don't worry," said Dr. Massingale, taking on the firm, no-nonsense tone of the practiced physician. "I specialize in sleep-related neuroses and disorders. First I want to get her on a regular sleeping schedule, get her rested, and then I'd like to take her downstairs to the lab so I can run some more tests. Now, if you want, I can stay with her tonight and watch her, to see how she reacts. . ." Dr. Massingale rattled off a number of complicated-sounding medications and techniques, to which Becca's parents responded by nodding and looking worried.

Becca continued facing the window, but her arms tightened around her knees. Her parents talked in low voices with Dr. Massingale about their possible courses of action, depending on what showed up in Becca's tests later, and the doctor asked some questions about her previous treatment. Eventually they got to the story about her high school friend, Katie. That night, the night of Katie's death, Becca had been found in the bedroom near the door, eyes wide and glassy, her fingers caught claw-like in her dark hair. At first they'd thought she was dead too.

The one thing that no one mentioned was the fact that the sight of a dead body alone, however mangled, should not have been enough to reduce Becca to a near-comatose state. She'd seen something else.

Becca didn't know the name of the medication Dr. Massingale had prescribed for her. But she took it obediently, and that night, for the first time in eleven months, she slept.

She dreamed.

She was back in her hometown outside of Seattle, in her best friend Katie's house. They were having a sleepover. There was nothing on the T.V. so they were taking it in turns to try to scare each other. Becca told Katie a rumor about a videotape that killed you seven days after you watched it. She went through the whole façade, embellishing the story with long, low vowels and the omniscient bravado of a practiced storyteller. Katie countered by saying that she'd seen the tape, one week ago to the day, and then pretending to choke to death on her own tongue. They both laughed. After that Katie's mother called to check on them, and it was time for bed.

Becca was in the bathroom washing her face. She thought she heard Katie say her name once, but it was hard to tell with the water running. She waited, and then heard nothing. Barely a minute later she heard footsteps pounding up the stairs – Katie again, coming up from the kitchen where the phone was. And then a shrill scream cut suddenly short, followed by the dull, ghastly sound of something heavy falling to the floor.

Becca's insides went cold. She left the water running and came out into the hallway. There was water on the floor.

"Katie?" she said. Her voice came out small and weak, barely reaching past her own ears. "This is so not funny – cut it out. I'm tired."

Katie's bedroom door was open. Moisture dripped from the cut glass doorknob. Becca stepped over the threshold, ignoring the pounding in her chest. A crumpled form was lodged inside the half-open closet on the right. Becca moved forward without realizing it, without wanting to, and looked down.

Katie was only recognizable by her hair and the school uniform she was still wearing.

Becca may have screamed, but the blood pounding through her head deafened her. Her stomach heaved and her knees gave out; she crashed to the carpet, which was drenched with water. Her face was wet somehow, but she didn't remember crying.

And then, a horrible stillness accompanied by a realization: there was someone else in the room. Becca turned her head left, towards the T.V. that sat on Katie's dresser. There was a figure in a hospital gown – once white, now greenish with rot and age – with long black hair hanging over its face. The hair was parted just a bit in the middle, enough for one eye to gleam through. It saw Becca. It was only a glimpse – a bare moment, hardly enough to count as real. But it saw her.

The figure's head dipped and the hair fell back into its dark curtain. And then it backed away. It melted into the T.V. – Becca hadn't even noticed it was on – and continued to shrink in size, finally lowering down into a stone well in the center of the picture. The T.V. cut itself off.

And then Becca started screaming.

Becca was still screaming when she woke up. Dr. Massingale tried to hold her when she sat up, but Becca thrashed and kicked and pushed her away.

"Turn it off!" Becca shrieked. "_Turn it off, turn it off!_"

"Becca, what on Earth. . .?" Dr. Massingale started, and then she followed Becca's gaze to the T.V. in the corning of the ceiling. It wasn't even on. "Becca," she said gently, "It _is_ off."

"_TURN IT OFF!_"

Dr. Massingale stood up and pulled the privacy curtain closed around the bed, hiding the T.V. from view. "How's that?" she asked. "Is that better?"

Becca breathed in once, twice, and then started to sob. Dr. Massingale went back to the bedside and put her arms around the poor girl.

"Oh, dear," Dr. Massingale said with a sigh. "We have a lot of work to do, don't we?"


	3. Day Two

Author's Note: Again, many thank-yous for the reviews! This next chapter is all from Paul's P.O.V., not because Jade asked for it, but because it just happened to work out that way. (You will be seeing quite a lot of him overall, though, as he's my favorite character too.)

Day Two: Static Interference

Gottreich was not yet privy to the presence of the new head-case on the ninth floor. Paul wasn't planning on telling him. Not if he could help it. If Gottreich found out about Becca, he'd bring her down to the Pain Room and make her one of his special patients, and then Paul wouldn't be able to have any fun with her. So he was keeping Becca's admission to himself for now.

Besides, there were more pressing things to worry about. Such as whatever had flooded the hallway and hijacked the phone lines on Becca's ward. It had to be a ghost – Paul knew a freelance spook when he smelled one. It wasn't so much the idea of a newcomer in the Old Kingdom that bothered him. It was the fact that they'd pulled a stunt like that without Paul or Gottreich's say-so. Nothing happened in their Kingdom without their at least knowing about it first, and this was an exception.

Gottreich was in the Pain Room, writing down the results of his latest experiment. Paul was in a nearby junk room, thinking. There was a metal slab in the center of the room, and a non-functioning computer monitor on the far wall. Gottreich had been trying various experiments to make the thing boot up for months now, but so far nothing had worked.

Paul slouched against the slab, brooding and pondering the events of the past two days. He'd followed Becca on her nightmare flashback, and while it still left a good deal of the puzzle unsolved, it did fill in a few blanks. Such as what that black-haired wraith was doing in Becca's memory, and why her friend's death had driven the sanity right out of her. He wondered if the wayward spook was her doing, if it had somehow followed her all the way from Seattle.

Suddenly a low surge of energy went through the room, and the computer monitor clicked on. The screen flickered and went out in seconds, but then it did it again. A single image appeared on the screen – a jagged, faraway circle of white – and then it went out again. Paul stood up. The screen flickered a few more times, trying to come on, but no more pictures appeared.

Paul hurried back to the Pain Room and found Gottreich bent over his notebook in the corner. "Dr. Gottreich!" he said.

"Mm?" said Gottreich, not looking up.

"We've got company," said Paul. "You better come look at this."

"Boy, I have told you time and again not to disturb me while I'm documenting my research."

"Yes sir, but I think this is—"

"That's enough, young man." Gottreich's voice now had an irritated edge to it. "I will not tolerate any interruptions until I have finished – is that clear?"

"But Dr. Gottreich—"

"Paul, _not now_!"

Paul took a deep breath. Sometimes Gottreich forgot that they were dead, and that he didn't really need to document his "research". Paul thought it was a tragic waste of eternity, poring over theories and hypotheses and numbers, but Gottreich was impossible to reason with when he got like this. He tried one more time.

"Dr. Gottreich," he said, "There is an intruder in our Kingdom. It's coming from the ninth floor, and I think it's—"

"Then by all means, deal with it yourself," said Gottreich. "You are a very intelligent, resourceful young man – I'm sure you'll think of something."

"But—"

"That'll be the end of it. Off you go."

Paul glared at the back of Gottreich's head, then turned and left the Pain Room. "Fine, fine," he muttered. "I'll shuffle her loose myself, you self-absorbed old bastard." He trudged down the ghostly hallway of the Old Kingdom, all the way to the glass double-doors at the end, and vanished.

He reappeared near the elevator on the ninth floor, and immediately he knew something was happening. There was a malignant presence in the air here, permeating everything from the walls, to the electrical wiring, to the addled minds of the patients.

First, he went to Becca's room. There was a white towel draped over the T.V. attached to the ceiling, but a blurry electric light still shone through it, changing and moving on the screen behind. The bed was empty. Becca was standing against the wall with her hands tangled up in her long hair, staring at the shrouded T.V. Her mouth was moving rapidly, but no sound came out. Paul moved closer, right in front of Becca, and stared at her lips. It was three words, repeating over and over: Nine, Four, Two.

Paul left Becca and headed down the hallway to room 942. The door was open, and there was water on the floor. There were no patients, but the dark aura that hung over the entire ward grew more concentrated as Paul approached.

The room was completely empty. No beds, no dresser, nothing. Except for a single wooden chair, facing away from the door. And in the chair, a girl in a long white hospital gown, with long black hair.

Paul paused in the doorway and contemplated the intrusive wraith. It was her, all right. The one who was causing all the damage. And of course, she was only just starting. He tilted his head, listening. The girl's mind was wide open in some places, but maddeningly vague in others. He found a name, a cause of death, and the same garbled mess of images that he'd seen in Becca's mind before. One thing he found extremely useful: she'd only been dead for twenty years. Paul had been haunting Kingdom Hospital for almost seventy. That made the intruder a rookie, at least by comparison, which meant she was less of a threat.

Paul straightened himself and took one step into the room. "So, you're it, huh?" he said. "You're the hitchhiker that came in with that head-case down the hall?"

She didn't answer.

Paul shrugged. "Fine, be that way," he said. He circled the chair, giving her a wide berth, and knelt down in front of her. Her hair was combed down over her face, hiding her features. "Listen up, rookie," Paul went on. "I don't know who you think you are, or how you did things back wherever the Hell it is you're from, but this is _my_ Kingdom. You didn't live here, and you didn't die here, so you don't get to make the rules. I do. Me and the Doctor. Everyone inside these walls belongs to us. _Everyone_. If that doesn't work for you, then you better get out."

A charge of static electricity rippled through the room, and the image of the girl and the chair sparked out for a moment. The next thing Paul knew, the chair was gone, and the girl was standing upright, much closer than she'd been a second ago. Paul swallowed, and then straightened up to face her again.

"You wanna gobble up as many souls as possible, don't you?" he asked. "I respect that. But you're not doing it here. This is a warning, rookie. Get out. Get out now, and find your own corner of Hell. Because if you don't, then you'll belong to us too."

The girl's image flickered, and then disappeared. She wasn't gone – Paul knew better than that. Just mulling over his warning, most likely. She probably hadn't counted on winding up in an already haunted hospital. Too bad. She could learn the hard way, just like everyone else.

The kid had style – Paul gave her that much. He was impressed by her technique. Scrambling the electronics was a classic poltergeist move, but controlling the T.V.s like that, and putting her own tortured memories up on the screen – that was something new.

One thing troubled him: she was powerful enough that her psychic reach had gone all the way down to the Old Kingdom, to the dilapidated old computer in Gottreich's junk room. Paul wouldn't have expected that from a rookie only twenty years dead. Also, she had a lot of rage, and that gave her an edge that he didn't like.

He wondered just how many she'd killed so far, and how. Becca would know. Not in her waking mind – her waking mind was useless. But if Dr. Massingale could make her sleep, maybe he could bring her to the Old Kingdom, and talk to her.


	4. Day Three

Author's Note: Sorry it took so much longer this time; I'm in the process of moving, so my down-time has been cramped with packing things into boxes and deciding what to keep and what to throw away. (The book and CDs were particularly difficult. . . They're the biggest pain to pack, you know.) As always, THANK YOU for reviewing! And in case there's anyone out there who's just lurking without dropping a line – thanks for reading and (hopefully) enjoying the story! Just one thing: Yekith, you are NOT a bad commenter. Kay? I'm not telling you again, so quit hating on yourself when you write me things. J Anywho, this chapter is a good deal longer, so hopefully that makes up somewhat for the delay. Enjoy!

Day Three: The Sleep Lab

Becca had slept fitfully the night before, but she'd slept through the night, and she hadn't woken up screaming. She was still largely unresponsive during the day, and given to unpredictable mood swings, but she was improving overall. That morning, when Dr. Massingale had come in to Becca's room to check on her, she'd spoken almost coherently.

"Lona," she'd said softly, staring at Dr. Massingale, puzzled. "You told me to call you Lona?"

Dr. Massingale had smiled. "Yes," she'd said. "That's right. That's me. How are you feeling today, Becca?"

But then Becca's eyes had slid out of focus again, and she hadn't spoken another word.

It wasn't much, but it was enough for Dr. Massingale to take her down to the sleep lab that evening to start her tests. As soon as Becca was out, laid down on one of the lab beds, Dr. Massingale fixed the electrodes onto her temples and heated up the EEG machine. Then she crossed the lab to her desk to watch the results. One large computer monitor took up the central position on the desk, along with three smaller ones fixed a bit higher up. One showed Becca's sleeping face; another was split down the middle to show two glowing, green-scale scans of her brain, from two different angles; a third continually scrolled a series of codes and numbers; and the large one contained Dr. Massingale's personal notes and recordings as she typed them.

Dr. Massingale sat down behind her many computer screens, and waited. Analyzing brain waves was monotonous work – just watching and waiting and recording data for many hours before anything definitive could be concluded. If Becca would at least start talking a bit more, if she could describe her dreams even vaguely, then Dr. Massingale could move forward on her case. In the meantime, she just wanted to scour the girl's neurological inner workings for abnormalities. As far as she knew, the damage Becca had suffered was purely psychological, but it was never a bad idea to double-check.

A shadow fell over Dr. Massingale's computer console. She turned and looked over her shoulder, but there was nothing there. Then a hand came down on her shoulder. She gasped and spun, and found Elmer Traff's lips crushed against hers.

Dr. Massingale shoved him and wiped her mouth. "Elmer!" she said.

Elmer laughed and settled into a chair next to the console. "Did I scare you?" he asked.

Dr. Massingale sighed impatiently. "I'm working," she said. "And you know how I feel about this little game of yours."

"Game?" Elmer scoffed. "This isn't a game, sweetness – it's an ongoing declaration of my devotion! You know, the sooner you stop fighting me on this, the easier it's going to be for both of us."

Dr. Massingale rolled her eyes and turned back to her console.

"So, who is this?" asked Elmer, nodding at the screen showing Becca's face.

"That's Becca," said Dr. Massingale. "Rebecca Jordan, recent transfer from Seattle Psychiatric."

"What, is she a nutcase?"

"That's not the PC term, but yes. She's a trauma victim, she doesn't talk much."

"Trauma?" Elmer asked, raising an eyebrow. "She doesn't look too banged up from here."

"Not that kind of 'trauma', Elmer," said Dr. Massingale. "She watched her best friend die about a year back. She's been catatonic ever since."

"Wow, that's rough. What happened to her? The girl who died?"

"That's the really obnoxious part – no one knows."

Elmer frowned. "What does that mean?" he asked. "Sixteen-year-old girls don't just drop dead for no reason – somebody must know."

"Well, no one else was in the room with her when it happened except for Becca," said Dr. Massingale. "So until I can get her to open up enough to tell me about it, your guess is as good as mine."

"I wonder if Becca killed her. . ."

Dr. Massingale laughed and glared back at Elmer. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "If that were true, they would have figured it out in forensics when it happened." Dr. Massingale sighed and rubbed her temples. "At least she's sleeping now. And she recognized me this morning – she called me 'Lona'. So she's making some progress."

Elmer moved his chair closer and started to put his arm around Dr. Massingale's shoulder. "I call you 'Lona' all the time," he said. "Does that mean I'm making progress too?"

Dr. Massingale stopped his arm at the wrist. "Don't," she said firmly. "Why are you down here anyway? Don't you have work to do?"

But Elmer wasn't looking at her anymore. He was looking at the computer screens. "What is that?" he asked.

Dr. Massingale turned to look. The data readouts, the brain scans, and the video of Becca's face were all gone. In their place was an image of a white, tiled room, and in the center sat a little girl in a white hospital gown, with long black hair. Her pale face was tilted to one side and peeked halfway through the dark veil.

Dr. Massingale let out an exasperated groan and went to the intercom by the door. "Otto," she said into the speaker. "Otto, I need somebody to fix the video feed down here – are you there?"

No answer.

"He's probably asleep," said Elmer.

Dr. Massingale sat down again. "Must be getting mixed up with another signal," she said. "I don't know why I'm picking it up in here, but I can't work like this! How am I supposed to record data when I'm not even getting a video feed?"

A voice was speaking from the video of the girl on the screen. It was a man's voice, probably from the other side of the camera. He was asking her questions.

"I don't think it's that," said Elmer. "Is there even a room like that in this building? Look at it – it's like an interrogation room, like they have for criminal suspects."

The little girl's voice spoke next. It was a small voice, childlike, but with an unnatural sharpness to its tone. A harsh timbre that wasn't quite human. Dr. Massingale checked the wiring behind all four screens and then looked at the setup over by Becca's bed, just to be sure that everything was on and plugged-in the way it ought to be. It was.

"Of course it's not an interrogation room," said Dr. Massingale. "Why would anyone do that to a little girl?"

"_You don't want to hurt anyone else, do you Samara_?" said the man on the video, the one behind the camera.

The little girl's head straightened, and the dark veil over her hair fell open. She looked dead into the camera. "_But I do_," said her small, harsh voice. "_And I'm sorry. It won't stop._"

Then the video cut to static, and the EEG data feed came back onto the screens.

It was happening again. The memory, the nightmare – Becca couldn't stop it. She heard Katie's scream, the last sound she ever uttered, found the gruesome body, and met the gaze of the specter who had killed her. She screamed and screamed, but she couldn't stop it. She couldn't wake up.

Suddenly she sat up in her bed. She was breathing heavy, and her hair was sticking to her face and neck with sweat. Where was she? This wasn't her room. There was a paper curtain drawn around her bed, and it was dark. A hospital bed. Nighttime.

Becca pushed her hair away from her face and tried to think. Her mind was fuzzy all the time now – she couldn't remember things the way she wanted to. Someone else's thoughts kept interrupting.

Something felt off. She breathed in and out, and she could see her room – exact in every detail, down to the metal railings that lined the narrow bed. But her hands, her bed, her sensory perception – it all felt soft around the edges. It felt like a dream. And then a voice, airy and insubstantial, like it was speaking directly inside her mind.

_Becca._

Becca started, and looked to her left, where the voice had come from. There was a girl with strawberry blond hair and a blue-and-white school uniform – the same uniform Becca used to wear, down to the knee socks and pleated skirt. (Why didn't she go to school anymore? She couldn't remember.)

"Katie?" asked Becca. "But . . . you're dead, I saw the—"

_I need your help._

Katie's eyes were wide and pleading, but her lips didn't move.

Becca got out of bed immediately. "What?" she asked. "What can I do?"

Katie smiled. She took Becca by the wrist; her grip was as cold as clay.

_This way – hurry._

Katie led her through the halls of the darkened hospital. It was odd, the hospital being dark. Usually at least one light was on. Hospitals were never closed the way ordinary buildings were – they got dim, but not dark. Even the nurses' station was empty. They arrived at the elevators and Katie pushed the down button. The elevator opened, not to a shiny automatic steel door like a modern one, but to an old-fashioned accordion grill. Katie pulled it open and dragged Becca inside.

The elevator went all the way down to the basement level. When the doors opened again, Becca stepped out into another dark hallway. A hospital hallway. There was light, but it was a faint, greenish light, and it didn't come from any of the usual sources like a window or a fluorescent overhead bulb. It was a glow that seemed to come up from the ground. There were noises – voices screaming, filling the air from every direction, but from a distance. And something else, a low, horrible sound, like the moaning of some giant animal.

"Where are we?" asked Becca.

The elevator door shut behind her, and the car rose back up to the seventh floor, empty. Katie was gone. Becca took a step back into the ghostly hallway, and started walking. The vaulted ceiling overhead was tall – high enough for a church. The high ceiling and the narrow hall created the unpleasant illusion of being in a space that was confined, but open at the same time. All the rooms she passed were empty, but Becca knew she wasn't alone. She'd never felt less alone in her whole life. And Katie had left her again.

Panic crept its way into her throat, and Becca started running. Her bare feet hit the tiled ground hard, causing a chilling numbness to shoot painfully up her calves. The air was old and stale here, making it difficult to breathe. And there was an odd smell. It was like a heavy, cloying perfume, sickening, that hung over the halls – the kind used to cover up something even less pleasant. Formaldehyde.

Becca turned a corner, and stopped short two feet away from a strange boy. He was tall and lean, maybe a year or two younger than Becca; maybe a century older. He wore a white linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves under a pair of suspenders. He had thick, tangled hair and dark circles under both eyes. Eyes that were blacker than night, and stared, unblinking, at Becca.

"Who are you?" asked Becca. "Where's Katie?"

The boy smiled slowly. "Katie?" he repeated. Then he started to laugh. The cold, raucous sound echoed off the high ceilings above them. "Katie's dead," he said.

Becca blinked, and she was no longer in the ghostly hospital. She was in the bright hallway of Kingdom Hospital, on the seventh floor, being led by the arm by Dr. Massingale back to her room.

"What happened?" Becca asked. "Why am I here?"

"We're all finished for tonight, sweetie," said Dr. Massingale. "You did wonderfully, but I think you better spend the rest of the night in your bed so you can get some rest."

They reached Becca's door and went inside. The bed was still unmade. Becca climbed in automatically.

"But," said Becca, "What happened to the other hospital?"

Dr. Massingale smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. "You were transferred away from there, Becca," she said. "You moved, along with your parents. I know it's confusing, being in a new place, but you'll feel at home here in no time – I promise."

Becca frowned, then stretched out on the bed and turned her back on Dr. Massingale.

Dr. Massingale squeezed her shoulder and got up off the bed. "Sweet dreams," she said, then she turned and left the room.


	5. Day Four

Author's Note: Again, sorry for the wait, and thanks for RnRing! And Yekith, yes, you're right – that's exactly what Paul is up to. Also, as you guys may or may not have noticed, there are supposed to be scene breaks in some of these chapters and for some reason they're not showing up. I dunno what problem is with asteriks and pound signs, but for now I'll just have to go with the less professional, far tackier (SCENE BREAK) tags so you guys know what's going on. Sorry about that - I'll fix it in the previous chapters some other time, just bear with me. Okay! This chapter is extra-long, but hopefully it'll explain some things, so enjoy.

Day Four: The Kingdom

The doctors of Kingdom Hospital were gathered around the table in the board room for the morning run-down. Dr. Stegman, the Chief of Neurosciences, had been late as usual, but that didn't change much. One of the staff psychiatrists mentioned an epidemic of nose bleeds that had been sweeping the ninth floor over the past two days, and wondered if there might be a problem with the ventilation up there. Predictably, Stegman pawned that particular issue off to "someone in maintenance" to worry about. Then Dr. Massingale brought up Becca's unusual case. The others listened attentively, but Stegman was not impressed.

"Sounds like it's time to crack open that nut and see what's wrong," Stegman said, after letting Dr. Massingale speak.

"She is showing a lot of improvement with the medications alone," said Dr. Massingale. "If I can get her to start talking more—"

"Showing 'improvement' after a solid year of the same kind of treatment isn't enough, Lona," said Stegman. "It might be a little aggressive, but psychosurgery—"

"It is aggressive," said Dr. Massingale. "Very aggressive, and invasive, and potentially more dangerous to her recovery than what she's already been through. This problem, whatever it is, isn't physical – I'm positive about that."

"All the same, we don't want to keep her family waiting for results, do we? I'm going to recommend psychosurgery for – what was her name again?"

"Becca," said Dr. Massingale. "Rebecca Jordan."

"Yes – Miss Jordan. Lovely. Let's recommend at the very least an X-Ray and have a look at what's going on in there. Then we can talk more about surgery."

Dr. Massingale glared across the table at Stegman. That was his answer to everything – X-Rays, then MRIs, then surgery. Then, more often than not, a pending lawsuit from the family of the patient about whatever he'd done wrong. "Well," she said finally, "Becca's parents are coming to visit her this afternoon. The final decision on the surgery will be up to them of course."

Stegman stared at Dr. Massingale as if only just realizing she was there, then gave her a tight, lightless smile. "Of course," he said.

(SCENE BREAK)

So close. _So _close, and then she'd had to go and wake herself up again. Even her subconscious was too shaky to trust. Paul had no choice – he was going to have to try Gottreich again. But this time, he'd try a different approach.

Paul found Gottreich in his lab, bent over bubbling glass vials and ancient machinery. He didn't look up when Paul came in. Paul leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and waited. Finally the doctor glanced up, frowned at the boy, and muttered, "What is it now?"

Paul grinned. "I talked to our visitor," he said. "It's a girl. Young, maybe twelve or thirteen."

Gottreich's brow furrowed, and he straightened up. Good – he was paying attention now. "That young?" he asked.

Paul nodded.

Gottreich clicked his tongue. "Such a shame to die so young," he said. "I wonder what happened to her?"

"Only one way to find out, right?" asked Paul. "She's not very friendly, but I think maybe she just needs a good doctor."

"Maybe. . . Not friendly, you say?"

Paul nodded again.

"Mm." Gottreich moved away from his steaming experiments and took up his notebook. "How very interesting. A possible mood disorder, antisocial behavior, psychosomatic abnormalities perhaps." He flipped through the dirty pages and a slow smile stretched his wrinkled face. "Yes, she may be a good candidate for this new procedure."

Paul smiled.

"Paul, I should like to meet this visitor," said Gottreich. "See to it that she finds her way to the Pain Room."

"No problem," said Paul. And then he left the lab. It was almost cute, how easy it was to manipulate the old man. He wished he'd known that before the accident. . . But never mind – that was in the past. Tonight, he had another job to do. The hitchhiker wasn't playing by the Kingdom's rules, but every restless spirit had rules. Paul just had to find out what hers were, and figure out a way to work them to his advantage. That meant Becca – he had to try to talk to her again. But no theatrics this time. Just get her talking, and get some answers.

(SCENE BREAK)

Dr. Massingale met Becca's parents in the lounge after they'd visited their daughter. Becca was immune to the nosebleeds afflicting the rest of the floor, but she was the only one – and that included some of the hospital staff, nurses and orderlies, who were beginning to complain of strange dreams as well. Nightmares. The eerie epidemic worried Dr. Massingale, but she had Becca to take care of – one thing at a time. She stood up and smiled warmly to greet Mr. and Mrs. Jordan, but Mr. Jordan had fire in his eyes and a set to his jaw.

"What's this I hear about you wanting to open up my little girl's head?" asked Mr. Jordan.

Dr. Massingale took a breath and made a silent oath to find out and strangle whoever had let that piece of information out. "That's just an idea right now," she said. "Nothing definite. Of course we wanted to run it by you first, before—"

"It's not happening," said Mr. Jordan. "No way, do you understand?"

"Honey, calm down," said Mrs. Jordan, taking her husband's arm and patting him on the shoulder.

"I understand, sir," said Dr. Massingale. "Actually, I agree completely – I think that psychosurgery is both aggressive and unnecessary in Becca's case. I wouldn't have suggested it myself, but our Chief of Neurosciences wants to make sure that there's no physical damage to Becca's brain, so I would like to run an X-Ray to prove that that's not the case."

"And how much is that going to cost us?" asked Mr. Jordan.

Mrs. Jordan took a tighter grip on her husband's arm, and he flinched slightly. "Our insurance will cover it," she said. "Go ahead with the X-Ray, but no surgery. Not this time."

Dr. Massingale nodded. "Fine," she said. "Great. I'll schedule her for seven this evening."

(SCENE BREAK)

Becca was in a dark place. She could hear people talking, and she recognized Dr. Massingale's voice, but she couldn't understand the words. Everything was distant, and blurry. She could feel her mind trying to pull itself back, to grab onto reality if only by a thread, but it always slipped back to the fuzzyness.

Also, there was a name inside her head now: Paul Morlock. She didn't know anyone by that name – not that she remembered anyway – but when she said it inside her head, an image came with it. It was a boy, about her age give or take, in dirty old-fashioned clothes circa 1930-something, with eyes that gleamed like black water.

The tile was dusty and cold under her feet; how long had she been walking? She didn't remember getting out of bed. Maybe she hadn't. . . The steady murmur of voices that had followed her from the waking world had morphed into the distant screams and growls of . . . whatever this place was. The old hospital. She wasn't dreaming – that much was obvious. And she hadn't died, because she could still feel and hear a bit of what was going on upstairs. Her brain was somewhere else, but her mind was in the shadow world between life and death. "Swedenborgian Space" some called it, after the philosopher who had discovered it.

Static behind her – Becca froze. An electric crackle sounded once, twice, a bit closer behind each time. It was the sound of a television trying to come on, or a dodgy videotape trying to play. Becca didn't want to, but she turned and looked behind her.

There was no T.V., no VCR. But just a few yards down the grey-green hallway was the grainy, flickering image of the girl in the white dress. Samara, the wicked child, the nensha-weilder. Her long, black hair hung over her face damp and tangled. The image flickered again with a burst of static energy, and reappeared three feet closer.

Becca wanted to scream, but her throat had tightened and closed. She couldn't move. Suddenly another voice came from the other end of the hallway: "No!" and a hand as cold as clay grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her backwards. Becca yelped, startled, and fell onto the shoulder of whoever had grabbed her. She looked up, and saw the pale, narrow face of the boy she'd seen in her mind.

Paul moved forward, his head low and his jaw set, staring down the wraith at the end of the hall. "Back off, rookie," he said. "She's mine."

Samara's shrouded head lifted slightly, but Paul threw his arm out and a beam of white-hot energy shot from his fingertips. With a scream like the buzz of an electrical fire, the girl vanished, scattering into fragmented particles of fiber optic light.

Paul made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat, and shook his arm where Becca was grabbing him. "Let go, will ya?" he said. "I can still feel pain, y'know."

"Sorry," Becca muttered. She stepped forward, staring at the space where Samara had been only a moment ago. "Is she dead?"

Paul scoffed. "Yeah, she's dead – that's the problem," he said. "Can't kill her anymore. She's starting to piss me off, your little hitchhiker."

"My. . .?"

Paul squared his shoulders and faced her. "Becca we need to talk," he said. "That little nightmare of yours is making a lot of problems for the doctor and me. We want her gone, and I bet you do too, so you better cooperate."

"But. . . Didn't you just—?"

"I sent her somewhere else, for now, but she'll be back and she'll be angry when she gets here."

"Who are you?"

Paul frowned slightly, and tilted his head as he looked at her, as if deciding just how much she needed to know. "Never mind," he said. "The more important thing is that spook. I need you to tell me who she is and what she's doing here."

An echo, not quite a memory but a small part, came back to Becca's mind, and clicked into place. She'd seen Paul before. It had only been for a moment, but she'd seen him. "It was you, wasn't it?" she asked. "The other night. But you looked like Katie. You put on her face and led me down here."

A muscle in Paul's jaw twitched, but then he smiled and said, "Yes, that was me. It's a little trick of mine – maybe I'll tell you about it sometime. But right now, you need to tell me everything you know about Samara Morgan."

Becca ducked her head and hugged herself tightly; just hearing the name made her insides go cold. "I don't know much," she said. "She's evil, and she gives me nightmares."

"Yeah, but she hasn't killed you."

"No. . ."

"Why not?"

"I guess it's because I never saw that tape. The one Katie watched. That's why she died. . . She didn't have enough time."

"Enough time for what, Becca?" Paul's dark eyes were blazing, hungry for more information. "What was she supposed to do?"

But Becca wasn't listening anymore. "She followed me here," she murmured. "She follows me everywhere. She shows me things. Memories, but they're not mine. I don't know why they're in my head. . ."

Paul reached out and grabbed Becca's wrist. "Oh, no you don't," he said. "Don't trip out on me now. Becca!"

Becca's eyes flashed up to meet Paul's again, and her mind returned somewhat focused. "Who are you?" she asked again.

"Don't worry about that," said Paul. "Just stay with me, don't get lost out there. Listen, she hasn't killed you yet, but she could. That girl is stuck to you like glue – _why_?"

Becca stared at him, and as she stared, a new wave of images flooded her tangled mind. A fire in a hospital, not unlike the one in which they were standing, long ago. A bad doctor, grinning madly in the heat of the blaze. A scared young boy trapped in a glass prison filled with water. The sound of a bell ringing, very clearly, but very far away.

"You didn't die in the fire," said Becca.

Paul's eyes darkened. "What?"

"They found you after and thought that's what happened," Becca continued. "But when it started, you were already dead."

Paul let go of her and backed away. "You. . . How did you. . .?"

Becca blinked, then crossed her arms over her middle again, huddling over to keep out the cold. She could hear Dr. Massingale's voice coming from somewhere high above, echoing bleakly through the fog of the old hospital.

"Get out," said Paul. "Get out of here now."

Becca frowned. "Why?" she asked.

"I said _go_!"

Becca opened her eyes, and sat upright in her hospital bed. Dr. Massingale was standing just outside the door, talking to a tall man with blond hair and a cruel, thin mouth. She was showing him some X-Rays, and they were both speaking in low, heated tones. A few minutes later, the blond doctor left, and Dr. Massingale returned to Becca's room in a huff. Her demeanor shifted as soon as her eyes fell on Becca.

"Oh, hello there!" said Dr. Massingale, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I didn't know you were awake."

"Am I going to be okay, Lona?" Becca asked.

"Of course you are, sweetheart," said Dr. Massingale, taking Becca's hand. "We just need to figure out. . ." She faltered and cleared her throat. "We just need to decide how to help you best, that's all."

But Becca heard her unspoken words as clearly as if she'd said them aloud: _What's wrong with you_. They needed to figure out what was wrong with her.

"I'm scared," said Becca. "There's not enough time."

"Don't be silly, of course there's time." Dr. Massingale patted Becca's hand. "You're going to be fine, one way or another."

"Not me – the others. They only have three days left."

For some reason, that was too much for her, and Becca lowered her head and started to cry. Dr. Massingale moved closer and put her arm around Becca's shoulders.

"Here we go again," she said, not unkindly. "I wish you could tell me what's bothering you so much. Is it Katie?"

"_NO_!"

The word came out with such force that Dr. Massingale started and let Becca go.

"Becca, what on Earth is the matter?" she asked. "Why can't you tell me?"

Becca looked up at Dr. Massingale through a veil of tears. "Ask Rachel," she said. And then her mind went blank again.


	6. Day Five

Author's Note: Sorry for taking so bloody long on this one! My internet access, as some of you know, has been severely limited of late. Hopefully the length of the update will make up for it somewhat. ('Ant Boy' makes an appearance also.)

Day Five: The Guardian of the Gate

Dr. Massingale was on the phone with Becca's father. It was ten o'clock in the morning. "Yes, she mentioned a name," she was saying. "Rachel. Do you have any idea who that is?"

"Rachel. . ." said Mr. Jordan. "Yeah – that's Rachel Keller, she was a friend of ours. Well, more of an acquaintance really, but Becca saw more of her than we did. She's an investigative reporter – Katie's aunt, she was trying to research Katie's death as a favor to her mother."

"What did she find out?" asked Dr. Massingale.

"We're not sure. We know she came to talk to Becca once in the hospital back home, in Seattle, as part of her research, but you've seen how she is. . . I don't know if she got any answers after that or not. I think I still have her number, if you need it."

"That would be wonderful – thank you!"

"Hang on – while I have you here, can I ask you something?"

Dr. Massingale hesitated – there was an accusatory flavor in Mr. Jordan's tone. "Sure," she said. "What it is?"

"Back home Becca used to have a screen to walk behind so she could get from room to room without seeing a T.V. She insisted on it – it was the only thing that kept her mood swings in check."

"Oh, that," said Dr. Massingale. "I remember now. I'm sorry, but our Chief of Neurosciences ordered to have it removed."

"Why?"

"He doesn't want us 'fostering the delusions of the patients' he said."

Mr. Jordan sighed on the other end of the line.

"I know, Mr. Jordan," said Dr. Massingale. "But there's really nothing I can do about that. She is getting better, much better. Almost by the minute."

"Good. You'll let us know if anything happens, right? Good or bad?"

"Of course I will. Thanks for your help – I'll let you know if I can find out anything from Rachel."

(SCENE BREAK)

Dr. Gottreich was immersed in a study of the dodgy electronics in his lab. Everything that required energy had gone off in the past twelve hours or so; Paul knew why, but Gottreich refused to hear any news of their ghostly visitor unless it was something to do with luring her to the Pain Room, and so far that hadn't happened.

Paul had bigger problems. Becca's words had frightened him, and he wasn't used to being frightened. Sure, Gottreich could be a mean bastard when he got into one of his moods, and Paul wasn't entirely beyond feeling pain; and there was always Antibus to worry about; but those were fears he lived with daily. This girl had seen his death. Only one person knew exactly what had happened that day, with the fire, and even that one sometimes forgot. Even in death, Gottreich's gruesome experiments took precedence over everything else. The fact that Paul, his unwilling assistant, was bound to him by way of a not-quite-accidental murder, was lost in the details. Paul hadn't forgotten – How could he? – but he'd pushed it to the back of his mind. It was easy without another soul around who knew the truth, or at least acknowledged it. But then this had to happen.

So Paul was in the Kingdom Hospital morgue, leaning against the refrigerated steel wall, moping. The dead of the waking realm were quiet, peaceful, empty, and their resting places were also. Morgues, cemeteries, crypts – those places were safe. Paul would be untroubled here by the haunts that walked the Old Kingdom.

Or so he thought.

A shadow passed the threshold of the morgue, and something covered in thick fur, the size of a large dog or a small pony, came inside. It had a long snout, and it walked on clawed feet with sharp talons that curled underneath. A giant anteater. It padded softly into the cold and quiet of the morgue, watching Paul with small, impassive eyes, and settled itself onto one of the metal slabs.

Paul stared back at it coldly, willing it to either reveal its purpose or go away. "What do you want, fleabag?" he asked finally.

The anteater laughed coldly. "You have such a way with words," it said. Its voice was oddly similar to Paul's, but deeper, more resonant. It was the voice of a being far older than any ghost inside the walls of the Kingdom, older than the ground on which the hospital stood. "I'm curious," it went on. "You've been acting soft lately."

"What are you talking about?"

"All those poor, addled old fools on the ninth floor," said the anteater. "They're getting sucked into a death-trap. Easy pickings. Any particular reason you're not taking advantage of that?"

"I've got things to do. . ."

"We both know you don't have any things to do, Paul."

Paul shot the anteater a reproachful look, but didn't answer.

"What, nothing?" said the anteater. "Not even a witless retort? My, my, you _are _going soft."

"Why are you here? You don't care whether I torture those folks on the psyche ward or not."

The anteater crossed its front paws in a decidedly human-like gesture. "I have a job for you," it said. "I need you to do me a solid."

"No, no," said Paul, standing upright and turning to face the anteater. "I'm not playing your little game, Antibus."

"You still don't get it, do you?" The anteater made a disapproving noise in the back of its throat. "You don't have a choice. You made your choice more than sixty years ago, and now you'll do what you're told."

Paul glared hard at the anteater, but couldn't argue. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, tension making his voice low.

"Get rid of our uninvited guest," said Antibus. "It's on your agenda anyway."

"Who, Samara?" Paul said with a laugh. "Easier said than done, pal. I know how her gig is supposed to work, and she's not following the rules anymore. Not even her own rules. There's supposed to be a videotape that those nutcases upstairs watched, but I can't find it anywhere. It doesn't exist. They saw something on those T.V.s, but she put it up there some other way."

"How do you know all that, Sherlock?" asked Antibus, unfazed.

"I saw it all, through Becca," said Paul. "I saw it in her mind. I don't think she knows half of what she's carrying in her brain, but it's all there. Every piece, every little detail, like a blueprint of everything Samara's ever done."

Antibus laughed. Paul frowned.

"What?" asked Paul.

"You still don't see it?" said Antibus. "Becca. That's your key. Don't you think it's funny that she's still alive, after all that time carrying Samara's memories? Don't you think it's weird that she's stuck in all this without ever having watched that tape?"

"Well yeah, but—"

"Look, kid, I'm not allowed to spell it out for you. Just think. It'll come to you. But do it quick, because otherwise all those patients on the psyche ward are going to die, and some of the staff too." Antibus lumbered off the metal slab and padded to the doorway. "You have two days." He turned his oblong head back to Paul just once. "It's kind of sweet, the way you're protecting her. But it's not gonna do her any good."

Paul made a face. "What are you talking about?" he said. "I'm not . . . _protecting_ her! I'm just saving her for myself."

"Fine – keep telling yourself that."

But there was a knowing look in the anteater's glassy eyes, fleeting but still there, before it left Paul alone in the morgue.

(SCENE BREAK)

Dr. Massingale slammed the door to her office and put her head down on the desk. So much work, so much progress, and now this? It just wasn't fair. Why Dr. James wouldn't fire that halfwit, Stegman, and put the rest of them out of their misery was utterly beyond her.

Just minutes ago, not long after Dr. Massingale had talked with Becca's father, Stegman had suggested that Dr. Massingale, as a neurologist, might not be an appropriate primary physician for "that Becky girl." He wanted to transfer Becca's file to one of the psychiatrists who worked exclusively on the ninth floor, and remove Dr. Massingale to her dream studies indefinitely. Hook had stood up for her, pointing out the obvious – that transferring Becca to another doctor at this point would be both foolhardy and possibly dangerous – but there wasn't much he could do. The final decision would be left to the Dr. James, the Kingdom Hospital Chief of Staff, but that man was so far removed from the everyday workings of the hospital that there was little hope he wouldn't just take Stegman at his word to make things simpler.

Elmer burst into the office. "Did you miss me, mon amore?" he asked.

Dr. Massingale groaned. "Hi, Elmer," she muttered.

Elmer bent down to look at her, and frowned. "Lona, what's wrong?" he asked sincerely. "Did something happen?"

"Oh, it's Stegman," said Dr. Massingale. "He wants Becca transferred to someone on ninth."

"Why?"

"Apparently my being a neurologist, rather than a psychiatrist, means I'm not an appropriate primary care physician for her."

Elmer made a face and sat down in the guest's chair on the other side of Dr. Massingale's desk. "That's insane!" he said. "You've been treating her since she got here – I thought she was getting better."

"She _is _getting better."

"Wow. . . Well, listen, if you're going to have more free time, I was thinking—"

"Elmer, no. I'm not saying it again."

"Wait – it's not what you think. I've been having these dreams lately, really weird ones."

Dr. Massingale frowned, but nodded. "Nightmares?" she asked.

"Yeah," said Elmer. "Not always the same one, but they all have some incarnation of that girl we saw in the sleep lab the other day."

"What girl?"

"Don't you remember? She showed up in the data readouts too. A little girl in a white dress."

Suddenly Elmer's pager went off. He looked down at the message and frowned. "Duty calls, my sweet," he said, standing. "Sorry."

Dr. Massingale grinned wryly and waved as he left the office. Next to her telephone was a phone number scribbled on a yellow Post-It. Dr. Massingale picked up the phone and dialed the number. If Becca was transferred again, then the least Dr. Massingale could do was to gather as much information about her as possible before that happened.

After three rings, the person on the other end picked up. "_Hello?_" said a woman's voice.

"Hello," said Dr. Massingale. "This is Dr. Lona Massingale from Kingdom Hospital in Lewiston, Maine. Am I speaking with Rachel Keller?"

"_Yes, this is Rachel. What is this about?_"

"I have a patient here, a young girl named Becca Jordan. I understand you spoke with her some time ago about the death of your niece, Katie. Is that right?"

There was silence on the other line.

"Mrs. Keller?"

"_I'm here,_" said Rachel, but her voice came through hollow and distant. "_But it's Miss, not Mrs. Rachel is fine, actually._"

"Okay," said Dr. Massingale. "Rachel, I'm sorry to bring this up again. I know it must be difficult for you, but if I'm going to help this little girl, then I need to know what happened to her."

"_I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're asking me._"

"Do you remember Becca at all? Did you speak to her?"

"_Yes, but she didn't say much. She was very unresponsive. Just . . . gibberish, mostly._" Rachel's words came out a bit rushed, and Dr. Massingale wondered if she was hiding something.

"What did she say?" asked Dr. Massingale. "Do you remember?"

Another pause, and then Rachel answered. "_I asked her about Katie. I was trying to find out exactly how she died. Becca told me that I would find out in four days. That was all she said._"

Dr. Massingale frowned. "Did you find out?" she asked.

"_No_."

The lie was defiant and obvious. Whatever the truth was that Rachel had uncovered, it was either too horrible or too unbelievable to speak aloud. Dr. Massingale put her hand up and rubbed her temples, cleared her throat, and tried a different tack. "Rachel," she said. "Here at the Kingdom we sometimes have earthquakes that are confined to the hospital grounds. We have a psychic lady named Sally Druse who works with the terminal patients on the top floor here. Some of our staff have claimed to see a little girl with a bell who appears only when someone is about to die. I myself have seen things in Becca's X-Rays, and in her data readouts, that don't belong, that I can't explain. Please, tell me the truth. I'm sure I can handle it."


	7. Day Six

Author's Note: As usual, thanks to everybody who's reading and reviewing – you're all awesome – and I apologize once again for taking so freakin' long getting these updates together. This chapter was particularly difficult to finish. Partly on account of my own laziness, partly because I wasn't sure exactly how to flesh out Becca's relationship with Paul, partly because I've been grieving the loss of one of my personal heroes this week. It seems like death always hits us when we least expect it. I've lost people who were important to me before – my uncle, both my grandmothers, my baby cousin (who was also named "Becca"), three dogs and two cats. It's a different kind of grief when it's someone that you admire, someone who inspires you, someone you've never met. I guess it's because you tend to think of celebrities a little differently than regular people. Even though movies, books, and music affect me and speak to me in profoundly personal ways, it's easy to forget just how little I really know about the people behind the art.

I've been a fan of Heath Ledger's for about eight years, give or take. I liked the fact that he stayed just under the radar of superstardom, taking roles that seemed off-beat or risky for his career because they were stories he felt needed to be told. Every person I cajole into watching _The Four Feathers _with me agrees that it's one of most moving and under appreciated films ever made. _The Dark Knight _is, I'm sure, going to be the best "Batman" film to date, and his involvement in it is one of the biggest reasons for that. Never in a million years would I have imagined him going out like this.

Still, I reckon it's time for me to quit moping and keep writing. Stories are what give me hope in light of all the bad things that happen in the world. Like Paul Bettany's Chaucer in _A Knight's Tale _says, "I'm a writer – I give the truth scope!"

Day Six: Blueprints and Pictures

Paul sat at Becca's bedside, waiting for dawn to break. It was day, but it was still dark, and everyone was sleeping. He could hear their nightmares clearly, mostly because they were identical, but also because he was making an effort to listen.

It irked him that Antibus had had to explain things for him, but he understood now. Becca's mind was a blueprint, a back-up of all of Samara's memories, to keep the nightmare going just in case the tapes were destroyed. And Paul had been eavesdropping on Dr. Massingale's conversation with Rachel – she _had_ destroyed the tapes. Every last one. Samara's hold on Becca's mind was strong, but her immortality was hanging by a thread. If Paul could find a way to sever that bond sometime before she had a chance to do any more damage, then she'd be gone forever. The ones she'd killed already were in limbo, most likely; they'd be released once Samara was destroyed.

The easiest way was to just kill Becca. Samara had gotten into the heads of the people on the psyche ward already, and Paul wasn't sure how to stop her if he couldn't lure her to the Pain Room before the seven days were up. And even if he could, how could he be sure that she wouldn't just pop back into the ninth-floor ward as soon as it was time for her to kill everyone? So that was the answer: kill Becca, take Samara out with her. That was what Antibus had meant, in telling Paul that it was useless to try to protect her.

Why was this so hard? Paul had killed before, many times, in this hospital and even before his death. All he had to do was reach out, take the girl's slender throat in his hand, and squeeze until she stopped breathing. It was easy. And she'd belong to him forever if he made her a ghost here, in the Kingdom. She'd keep wandering, along with Mary and Gottreich and all the other tortured souls who got stuck here. It would be nice to have somebody to talk to. . .

Paul stood up, stretched his hand out, but when his fingers brushed Becca's cheek he stopped. He pulled back and took a step away from the bedside. There had to be another way. If only to prove Antibus wrong, he was going to find another way. Paul turned away and left Becca's room, disappearing a few steps into the hallway outside.

(scene break)

The story that Rachel had told Dr. Massingale was a strange one, but not the strangest she'd heard. So the dead girl, Becca's friend, Katie, had been killed by a ghost. A vengeful spirit who was so full of rage and anger that she murdered anyone who got too close. Dr. Massingale wasn't sure she believed it, but Rachel's description of the wraith matched the girl she'd seen in the sleep lab data feed. It was absurd to even entertain the idea that this was true, but it would explain a few things. Such as the foreign, unfamiliar objects that had found their way into Becca's X-Rays; and the epidemic of nosebleeds on the psyche ward; and the strange drawings that some of the patients had made, of ladders and circles and humanoid figures with their faces scratched out in black.

This was beyond her field of expertise, but she'd be damned before she let Stegman find that out. There was only one person in the Kingdom that Dr. Massingale could turn to in this situation, and she was determined to do it quietly.

The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and Dr. Massingale walked briskly to Sally Druse's room. Sally was sitting up, laying out Tarot cards on the empty dinner tray over her bed. She smiled up at Dr. Massingale as she came in. "Hello, dear," she said kindly, her bright eyes folding into crows feet that somehow made her look younger rather than older. "What can I do for you?"

Dr. Massingale smiled back. It was Sally's way, assuming a natural authority over any situation without seeming pushy.

"I have um . . . an unusual request to make of you, Mrs. Druse," said Dr. Massingale.

"Sally, please."

"Sally," repeated Dr. Massingale.

"What is it, dear?"

"It's a patient of mine. Becca, Rebecca Jordan. She was admitted as a trauma patient – nothing physically wrong with her, at least not that we can find, but—"

"Oh, you mean that little girl up on the psychiatric ward?" Sally interrupted. "Yes, I know exactly who you mean. She likes to wander a bit, doesn't she? Poor thing. . ."

"You've seen her?" asked Dr. Massingale, incredulous.

"Well, no," said Sally. "I've heard of her, though. Just whispers – word is she came in with someone else, someone who's been causing a lot of damage upstairs."

"Hm." Dr. Massingale paused, resting her chin on her fist.

Sally considered Dr. Massingale for a moment, then put her Tarot cards away and looked her in the eye. "What is it, exactly, that you want me to do, Lona?"

"I. . . I'm not sure. This really isn't my field – I have no training for this kind of thing."

"Maybe, if I could speak to Becca myself, then . . .?"

"Yes."

Without another word, Dr. Massingale led Sally Druse upstairs to the ninth floor ward, and down the hall to Becca's room. Becca was sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring up at the shrouded T.V. in the corner. The curtains had been parted. Sally didn't wait for Dr. Massingale to instruct her further, but took the seat next to Becca's bed and reached out to take her hand. Becca blinked, and looked down at the old, wrinkled hand holding her own.

"Hello Becca," said Sally, speaking loudly and clearly, as if she was talking to someone who couldn't hear properly. "My name is Sally. I'm here to help you. Lona's here too."

Becca looked up at Sally, and her dry lips parted. "Sally," she repeated. "You. . . You can see things, like me."

Sally smiled. "That's right," she said. "I see a lot of things. I see what other people can't because they don't want to, because they're afraid. Is that what you see, dear?"

Becca licked her lips and looked away. "Memories."

"Memories?" asked Sally. "Whose?"

"And other things," Becca went on, not listening. "Things that haven't happened yet. Not to me. Horrible things. . ."

Sally frowned, then took a better grip on Becca's hand and moved closer. "Becca," she said, "Can you tell me what it is you saw? Can you show me?"

But Becca wasn't listening anymore. She was staring at a point in the middle distance, behind Sally and Dr. Massingale, her face as blank as her mind.

Dr. Massingale sighed. "Her lucid periods are getting better," she said. "But she keeps slipping away. It's been frustrating, to say the least."

"Mm." Sally patted Becca's hand once more, then let it go. "Well, she's gone for now, but she'll be back." Sally stood up. "These disturbances have been going on for quite a long time, I believe. It's a shame her old hospital didn't make better progress with her."

"I know, I know," said Dr. Massingale. "Listen, Sally: I spoke with a woman named Rachel Keller yesterday, and she told me that this girl had watched her friend get killed by a ghost. That could explain a few things, but it's impossible."

"Impossible?" Sally chuckled. "Oh, you ought to know better than that, dear."

(scene break)

Becca wasn't sure who it was that had beckoned her from her room. It wasn't a kind presence, but it wasn't Samara either, so Becca followed it. It led her back to the Old Kingdom, back to the halls reeking of antiseptic that masked the rot of the dead, down to a room she hadn't seen before.

A small brass plaque was nailed to the door, tarnished and nearly illegible. Becca rubbed at the metal with her thumb. "Pain Room," she murmured, reading it aloud. The door creaked open, revealing a sliver of the dank room inside. There was a long table lined with glass vials filled with colorful, bubbling fluids; a desk at the corner covered in dusty papers and old medical books; a metal table holding a variety of unpleasant-looking instruments, all rusted; and on the far wall, a torn and discolored diagram of a human cranium.

"Come in, child," said a deep, malevolent voice. "I've been expecting you."

The voice was connected to the presence that had led her here; Becca knew it instinctively. She didn't answer, but backed away, leaving the door cracked. But then, footsteps. Two sets, one coming from inside the Pain Room, the other coming from the hall behind her. Before Becca had the chance to decide whether to freeze or run, a cold hand seized her wrist and hauled her away from the door to the Pain Room, into an empty pod with bars over the windows. Becca gasped and started to yell, but a second hand clamped over her mouth and a voice hissed, "Shh!" close to her ear.

The second set of footsteps, the slower one, passed by the doorway. Becca pressed back against her captor, more fearful of the unseen one outside, and in turn, her captor wrapped both arms around her to pull her deeper into the shadows. Neither of them moved or breathed until Gottreich's footsteps had faded completely.

Paul spun Becca around in his arms and gripped her shoulders hard. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a harsh whisper. "If you go in that room, Gottreich will never let you out. He'll kill you!"

Becca blinked. "I. . . I thought that—"

"We're trying to lure Samara here," said Paul. "Gottreich thought you were her. He doesn't know about you yet, and if you want to get out of here alive, you better not let him find out."

Becca stared at Paul, then grabbed his face in both hands, searching his dark eyes.

"What are you doing?" Paul asked quietly.

"He killed you, didn't he?" said Becca. "He was supposed to make you better, but he made you worse. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Paul didn't answer. He gripped Becca's wrists and pulled her hands away from his face. "I have an idea," he said. "It's going to be difficult, and probably dangerous, for you, but you'll just have to trust me. 'Cause I've been wracking my brain, and I can't think of anything else."

Becca nodded. "I trust you," she said.


	8. Day Seven

Author's Note: Hi guys!! Once more, thank you VERY much to all who are keeping up with this little story. We're almost done here – yes, this is Day Seven, so the 'Ring Cycle' (if you'll forgive the pun) ends with this chapter. But I have some loose ends to tie up too. The chapter after this one will be the final one. Okay! Carry on, readers – this is the scary one!

Day Seven: Ghost in the Machine

Dawn broke quietly over the psychiatric ward at Kingdom Hospital. Light filtered through the shrouded windows in shades of gray, cold and melancholy. The air was thick and clammy, as if a dark cloud had rolled into the halls of the ward, and a malignant silence weighed heavily over the sleeping patients.

Becca Jordan stood by the wall next to her bed, staring at the T.V. fastened to the ceiling. It was still covered by a white towel, but she knew she would hear it when it came on. Her mouth was moving silently as she went over Paul's instructions in her head. She wasn't sure she could do what he'd asked of her, but she had to try. She was very, very afraid. She couldn't stop twisting her fingers together, trying to deter her anxiety. But she still had to go through with it. As Paul had said, it was dangerous, but they couldn't think of any other way.

The T.V. clicked on. Becca sucked in her breath; her insides went hot and cold at the same time, and her chest tightened. Then she bit her lip, put her hands into fists at her sides, and breathed. It was time. She had to move quickly.

Becca left her room and went down the hall. The nurses and orderlies weren't up – it wasn't time for rounds yet. Becca kept her gaze straight ahead until she reached room 942, then she turned and went inside. It was still unoccupied. That is to say, there were no patients in either of the beds. There was a T.V. sitting on the dresser. It was on. There was a single, grainy black and white image on the screen: a well in the middle of a small meadow. Becca held her breath and watched.

A pale hand closed over the rim of the well, followed by an arm, and then another. Shoulders draped in ruined white linen, and the black-veiled head of the wraith, Samara. She climbed out of the well like a crab, imprecise and ungainly, moving just a bit too quickly to be believed. She rose up, straightening, and came closer to the television screen.

Becca backed up against the door of the not-quite empty room. If Paul's theory was right, then Samara wouldn't be able to harm her. Of course, at this very moment, all the other patients in the ward would be watching the same thing. And that meant that, in just a few minutes, they would all be dead. Unless Becca was successful.

Samara reached the very edge of the screen, so that her murky silhouette filled it completely. She raised a hand and reached out. Her fingers stretched out of the screen, reaching into the waking world, and closed around the dresser's edge. She pulled herself out of the T.V. and crawled out onto the floor. Becca bit her lip again and willed herself not to scream. It occurred to her then that perhaps Paul had no intention of helping her, that maybe sacrificing her had been his plan all along, but she pushed the horrid thought out of her mind.

Samara stood, much taller than she should have been, having died as such a young girl, and she moved forward. The black veil of hair remained closed over her face, but Becca knew it was only a matter of time. She was getting closer.

"Paul?" Becca called to the air, her voice coming out in a high-pitched bleat. There was no answer. "C'mon, where are you?"

Becca's hand found the door handle behind her and grabbed on for support. She blinked, and the next instant Samara was only two feet away from her. "Oh God," Becca gasped. "Paul!"

The dark head started to lift, and the hair parted smoothly in the center, revealing the gleam of the eye that Becca had seen only once before, in the bedroom of her friend more than a year ago. Becca fell to the ground, screaming, and covered her head with her hands.

It took Becca five full minutes to realize that she was still alive. The sound of her own breath, shallow and rattling, convinced her. Slowly she lowered her hands and looked up. The room was empty again. Truly empty this time. The television was off, but it was smoking. And there was a trail of water marking the places on the floor and dresser where Samara had been. But Becca was alive.

She stood up shakily and looked down at herself, just to make sure no pieces were missing, and then clamored out of the room. She ran down the hall to the first occupied room and burst in: it was the same. The T.V. in the corner was smoking, and there was water on the floor, but the patient in the bed was unharmed. Still asleep, in fact.

Becca checked three more rooms and then, satisfied that the plan had worked, she sprinted to the elevators and punched the number for the sleep lab downstairs. It was time to tell Dr. Massingale the truth.

(scene break)

Samara did not go quietly. She kicked and bit and shrieked like a banshee as Paul hauled her to the Pain Room, but Paul was stronger. Together he and Dr. Gottreich tied her to the examination table with a set of leather straps. When she was secure, Dr. Gottreich leaned over the table to look her in the face. "Oh yes," he said quietly. "You will make a prime subject for this new experiment of mine. Don't wander off, my dear. I will be back shortly."

Paul waited for Gottreich to leave the room – off to his lab for his equipment – then leaned against the table and smiled. "I did warn you," he said.

She'd never seen it coming. The very last moment before Samara had been planning to kill all those people on the psyche ward, the same moment that Becca had hidden her face, Paul had slipped into the room and seized her, dragging her down to the Old Kingdom. She never would have hurt Becca, at least not before claiming her victims, so Becca's presence in the room had thrown her. She wasn't supposed to be there. Paul had been betting on Samara assuming that Becca would try to run, and had accordingly told her not to. The longer Becca stayed there, the longer Samara had to wait. And that gave him time to grab her before she knew what was happening.

Samara's image flickering and buzzed like a faulty broadcast, but didn't disappear. She was trapped. When she finally stopped struggling, she cast her wide, dead eyes on Paul and stared at him hatefully.

"Oh, don't take it so personal," said Paul. "You brought this on yourself. Had it coming a long time, too."

Samara said nothing. Paul grinned. "My parents hated me too, y'know," he said. He'd seen Samara's death through Becca; the whole ugly story was in her memories now. He'd watched Anna Morgan come up behind her daughter, standing in front a well, singing to herself. And then he'd seen her throw a burlap sack over Samara's head, suffocating her, choking her, and then letting her body drop into the bottom of the long, narrow prison she'd been confined to until her restless spirit discovered videotapes.

Samara stayed silent at Paul's words, but her face shifted, no longer quite rigid. She was listening.

"Yeah," Paul continued, seeing that he had her attention. "That's how I ended up here in the first place. They told people they put me here to 'fix' me, to make me a better person, but they were just making me somebody else's problem instead of theirs. I saw their faces when they found out I was dead. They were _relieved_." Paul laughed bitterly and looked away. "I could've gone back, I think. There was a moment, before Gottreich found me, that I could've left this place and gone away. Not to the other side, but back to the beginning. To try again. I waited too long though. I missed my window." He looked over at Samara. "What about you? What's your excuse?"

The specter twisted her arms inside the leather restraints, trying to break away, but didn't answer.

Paul shrugged. "Fine," he said. "Be that way. You'll be more vocal once Gottreich gets to work on you."

As if on cue, Dr. Gottreich came back into the room, armed with a tray of bloodied, rusty instruments. "Is she prepped for the experiment?" he asked, glancing at Paul.

"Yes, doctor," Paul answered.

"Very good." Gottreich selected a long, thin spike of metal, gazing at the sharp end lovingly, and then turned his attention to Samara. "Now then," he continued. "Let's see if we can't do something about that nasty temper of yours, hm?"

Samara jerked and struggled under the leather straps, and looked wide-eyed back at Paul, imploring him for help. Paul only winked at her, and backed out of the door the way Gottreich had come.

Above the ground, in the sleeping hospital, the walls began to shake, and the Earth to rumble. Early staff members and nurses grabbed onto desks and doorframes to stay on their feet; they were used to these untimely earthquakes, but that didn't make them any less troublesome. This time though, a pair of voices rang through the air, just underneath the range of human hearing. Black noise. A girl, screaming in agony. And a boy, laughing.


	9. Last Day

Author's Note: Ta-Da!! Here it is – the final chapter. I happen to like happy endings. I can't always make them happen, but this one worked out okay I think. Thanks a whole, whole bunch to everyone who's followed this through to the end, and thanks in advance to anyone who comes across this later and decides to read it – you're all awesome! I hope I did The Kingdom justice. Bye everyone!

Last Day: Home

Becca stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom attached to her hospital room. She looked as normal as could be expected, for someone who had barely slept in over a year, and who had spent her waking hours mumbling incoherently about wells and rings and little girls in white dresses. Her eyes with both ringed in dark circles that would probably hang around for at least week, and she was very pale and very thin. But that wouldn't last. It was a small price to pay, all things considered. She was alive, and she had her mind back. That was what mattered.

When Becca had gone downstairs the day before and told Dr. Massingale what was happening, Dr. Massingale had taken it surprisingly well. She'd woken up Sally Druse, whom Becca only vaguely remembered meeting, and the three of them had sat up talking for almost three hours. It was only when Elmer appeared to deliver the message that Dr. Massingale was late for rounds that they were forced to disburse. Becca stayed with Sally, playing cards and talking about ghosts, until mid-afternoon when Dr. Massingale came back to tell them that, yes, she'd checked on the other patients in the psyche ward, and yes, they were all okay. Although there was quite a lot of water on the floor of up there – something for maintenance to deal with, of course.

Before sunset, Dr. Massingale made Becca go through a handful of very basic tests, just to make sure she was really "all better", and then she'd sent a report to Dr. James to have Becca checked out, so she could go home. Becca had begged Dr. Massingale to let her spend the night in the sleep lab that night. She knew that Samara was more or less gone, but she didn't want to stay in her room in case there was any leftover psychic residue that could torment her. Dr. Massingale agreed; she was so thrilled to see Becca lucid again, she didn't care where she slept. Becca also asked her not to call her parents until the morning; she wanted one night alone, without answering any more questions. Again, Dr. Massingale agreed.

Now it was ten o'clock in the morning. Becca had packed her few belongings, showered, and met her parents at the front desk about an hour ago. While they signed the necessary paperwork, Becca had gone back to her room once more, to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything.

She leaned a little closer to the mirror, touched the skin under her eyes lightly and wondered if she couldn't just cover those black circles with make-up. It didn't matter. She sighed and turned back to the room.

A boy with black eyes and tangled black hair was standing in the center of the room, watching her. Becca started, but then smiled. "Hi," she said. "I was wondering if I'd see you again."

Paul smiled, but didn't say anything.

"Is she really gone?" asked Becca.

Paul nodded. "Well, she won't be bothering _you_ anymore. She's with Gottreich."

"Oh. He. . . Is he going to hurt her?"

Paul laughed. "Now's not the time to start feeling sorry for the hitchhiker, Becca."

"Right. . ." Becca looked down at the floor and tugged at her shirtsleeve absently.

"You're leaving," said Paul. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," said Becca. "I'm not crazy anymore, so. . ." She shrugged.

Paul grinned. "You weren't crazy," he said. "You just had an evil ghost living in your head for a while."

Becca laughed awkwardly.

"What are you going to do?" Paul asked.

"I don't know," said Becca. "I guess I have to go back to school first. I only had one year left, but I have some catching up to do. And then there's college. I was thinking of going into medicine, maybe."

Paul raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Sure – why not? I think I'd like helping people."

"Mm."

A thick silence took over then. Paul rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. Becca tugged at a strand of her hair.

"Thanks," said Becca. "I mean. . . Thank you."

"For what?"

"Are you kidding? You saved my life!"

"No – she wouldn't have killed you."

"That's not what I meant. There are worse things than dying, I think."

Paul's mouth twitched into an almost-smile. "Right," he said. "Well . . . you're welcome."

Becca smiled and crossed the room to the T.V., still shrouded, in the corner.

"Y'know," said Paul, "I only did that so she wouldn't take over the Old Kingdom. I was just being territorial – this is _my_ haunting ground, y'know? I'm one of the bad guys."

Becca tugged at the towel over the T.V. and it fell to the floor. "You're not one of the bad guys," she said. "I don't think she was either. She was just really selfish. And she was in a lot of pain – I felt that the whole time. She wanted everyone else to hurt as much as she did." She folded up the towel and put in neatly at the foot of the bed.

Paul watched her. "Becca," he said.

She looked up.

"You won't forget me, will you?" he asked.

Becca stared at him, at the detachment and sorrow behind the darkness in his eyes, and realized just how young he was. Younger than she, by a year or two, but before she hadn't seen it so clearly. He'd seemed ageless before, in a sort of haunted and intangible way. But not now. How horrible it must have been, to be so alone, and unable to grow up. "I won't forget you, Paul," she said.

(scene break)

Samara had never felt powerless once in her entire life, or afterlife. This intrusion was unacceptable. She hollered until the walls crumbled and bits of plaster and rock fell from the ceiling, but Gottreich was stronger. She couldn't make him stop. She couldn't get away. She had no choice but to lie on the table and wait until he grew tired of her. It was hours. Days, maybe. She couldn't tell. Time didn't matter anymore; the seven days were up, and she had failed. She'd lost everything.

It wasn't the pain so much that upset her. She had known pain at the hands of bad doctors before. And she'd made them hurt for hurting her. She'd thrown their mistreatment of her back at them a hundred-fold. And she hadn't stopped there. She didn't _want_ to stop. Because it was never enough. No matter how many innocent lives piled up in her wake, she was never satisfied. Nothing would make the pain stop.

When Gottreich finally let her go, she tried to find Becca again. She reached out with the fingers of her being, looking for the dark places in Becca's mind that had held her for so long. She couldn't find them. So she looked for an empty space, _any _space, a strip of blank film or an unprinted X-ray, to throw her thoughts back into the world and start over; there was nothing. There was nothing but this dark place, this hallway steeped in the bloodied history of the Gates Falls Mill, and of Gottreich, and the Old Kingdom. She couldn't get out.

She ran from one end of the decrepit hospital to the other, banging on doors and rounding dim corners, looking for some way out. Disembodied voices floated through the air over her, distracting her, calling attention to their own suffering rather than hers. She cried out again to drown them out, and kept running. Finally she came to the end of yet another hallway, another dead end, and slammed a fist into the cold mortar. She could feel herself giving up, accepting that she couldn't escape, and she didn't like it.

A low rumble went through the ground, and behind her, the faint growl of some great beast. Samara went still. She turned, and saw the giant anteater at the other end of the hallway, just before the bend. It padded slowly, relentlessly towards her. It was in no rush. Samara backed into the wall behind her without realizing it. And as the anteater approached, it changed shape. The legs lengthened and the spine rose straight. The soft, golden fur fell away, replaced by worked leather and black cotton, and a silver pendant like a cross with a loop appeared around the neck. The long nose disappeared, melting into fine, even features and pale, smooth skin. The padding steps gave way to regular, human footsteps. Not an anteater, not Antibus, but Anubis. The Guardian of the Gate, ancient Egyptian god of the dead. When he reached her, Anubis bent down so that his face was level with hers, and smiled.

"Do you know who I am, Samara?" he asked, in the voice that was so like Paul's but so different.

"NO!" she shouted. "Get away – I'm not going!"

"Oh, you're so stubborn," Anubis chided gently. "What are you afraid of? Everyone has to cross over eventually. Also, I've been cleaning up after you for more than twenty years now, and I don't want to do it anymore."

Samara pouted, making the stern, rigid face that had terrified her victims literally to death. Anubis saw nothing but a spoiled little child who didn't want to grow up.

Anubis straightened up and looked down at her. She shrank back, and the pout became a silent whimper.

"You know there's only one way out of this Kingdom, Samara," said Anubis. "If you stay here, you won't be allowed outside. You won't cause any more damage in the living world. You won't even see them, the way the ghosts of the Old Kingdom can. You'll be stuck here, with no friends, no family, no victims. Only Gottreich will be able to touch you, if he's in the mood. That's your fate, if you don't follow me."

Samara made a face. "Just Gottreich?" she asked.

Anubis smiled. "Ah, you are listening," he said. "I'm letting Paul go. I told him in the beginning that his only way out of here was to do something willingly for someone other than himself. He didn't want to, so I sent Gottreich after him. That crazy old man always wanted an assistant. Paul's been bound to Gottreich ever since. But now, he's finally figured it out. He took it upon himself to save, not only Becca, but everyone on the psyche ward. Maybe you too, if you wanna think about it that way."

"What happens if I follow you?" asked Samara.

"Well you made a pretty big mess," said Anubis. "Nothing I can't handle, but every single person you killed has been stuck in limbo this whole time. They can't move on, because of the trauma of the experience. They need closure."

"What do I have to do?" Samara asked slowly.

"You have to talk to them. Tell them why you _really_ did it. And then tell them you're sorry."

"What, _everyone_?"

"That's right, everyone."

Samara looked away and sank back against the wall. Anubis regarded her quietly, then knelt down on his knee and leaned close to her. "How about this," he said. "You do me a solid, and I'll do you a solid."

Samara looked back at him, but didn't say anything.

"Paul doesn't know he's free yet," said Anubis. "How would you like to break the news to him?"

"He won't believe me. . ."

"Oh, he'll believe you. Paul knows a liar when he hears one. You do that for me, and I'll make it so that you only have to go through this once. You apologize to just one person, and I can make it so that all the others will hear you. Get it all over with at once."

"Who? Which one do I have to apologize to?"

"Katie." Anubis stood up again. "What do you say? We have a deal here?"

Samara stared at the Ankh on his chest, not meeting his gaze. "I don't want to go," she said. "I'm afraid."

Anubis smiled. "Don't be," he said. "I'll be right here." He held his hand out to her.

Samara stared at the hand, and then at him, meeting his eyes finally. She reached out, trembling just a little, and put her tiny hand into his. Anubis folded his fingers around hers, and together they walked away from the dark place.

It would still be a long time before everything was right in the Old Kingdom. But for now, for just this one night, the hospital, and all its spirits, were at peace.

The End.

02.18.2008


End file.
